


(give a damn about our) Reputation

by melon_gel (LyraTalus)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Hightown Funk Exchange, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraTalus/pseuds/melon_gel
Summary: "[...] I'm just really fascinated by the fact that Varric is canonically an unreliable narrator, and would love a fic that explores that. Especially considering he also decides how their relationship is seen by the outside world ;)"Varric is a very reliable historian. Reliably full of it, that is.





	(give a damn about our) Reputation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meggannn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggannn/gifts).



 

 

> _… I’d heard about her, of course; I have my sources in the city, and Hawke was making waves. But I was a busy man, and she kept unusual hours working for Embria (name changed to protect the guilty)._
> 
> _So it was, on a sunny afternoon shortly after Kirkwall finally got word that the Blight was over, that I first met Hawke. ..._
> 
> **\- The Tale of the Champion, Chapter 1**

It wasn’t like Varric could tell people what _really_ happened. He remembered it fondly, sure, but he had a reputation to uphold. Nobody got one over on Varric, not even Hawke. ...Also, it was in everybody’s best interest not to remind Aveline too often just what kind of people she hung out with.

When someone at The Hanged Man asked for the story of how they met, later on, Varric spun a cute little tale about chivalrously apprehending a scruffy pickpocket who had hilariously gotten the better of _Hawke_. Really, he thought it was a miracle anyone believed that one. But they did, and it stuck, and he put it in the book without a moment’s hesitation.

When Varric _really_ first met Hawke, his life was in her hands. That is to say, her knife was at his throat, and both his arms were lightly pinned. It was a great approach; he didn’t notice her until the moment her weight pressed Bianca against his back and steel kissed skin.

He said so.

“I exceed expectations in all my endeavors,” said the woman with the knife. “And in the interest of avoiding a demonstration, I insist you hand over your coin.”

Oh, very smooth. He could play that game. “Don’t let the pretty clothes fool you, sweetheart. I’m just a spare younger brother with a tragically small allowance.”

She leaned down enough to put her voice right next to his ear. “I’m afraid I’ll have to be the judge of that myself. After all, they are _very_ pretty clothes.” the hand that wasn’t holding the knife moved to run fingers over the embroidery at his neckline, and - score one for dwarven wiles - Varric had a free arm again.

“I’m flattered, really I am, but you’re not my type.” Quickly, neatly, he used his free hand to execute an elbow pinch he learned from a friend at the Rose. The woman dropped her knife with a yelp, and his other arm was loose. Varric spun around and grabbed her wrist. “Madam, I do believe you’ve found my purse.”

“ _Dammit_ ,” she spat.

Yeah, he had that effect on people.

In another maneuver that was honestly impressive, she twisted out of his grip, grabbed her knife off the ground, and disappeared out the other end of the alley in the space of a breath or two. Varric let out an appreciative whistle. Nothing like a nice bit of banter in the morning. He loved Lowtown. Smugly, he gave his purse a jaunty toss.

It clacked dully.

Clacked? He frowned and pulled it open. Well, shit. That was a lot of rocks. When did she get those in there?

Exceeds expectations indeed.

Varric considered for a moment trying to follow her, but a handful of silver wasn’t such a big deal, and he still had to meet Bartrand before noon. His brother was interviewing today for their Deep Roads crew, and he didn’t want to miss that. Bartrand had no eye for talent.

Unsurprisingly, it turned out that blowing off Bartrand to chase down a pretty rogue over pocket change would have been a much nicer way to spend the morning. He had a rant lined up first over how Varric was wasting his time being late; whose time was really being wasted, here? Then, to add injury to insult, Bartrand gave him a stack of papers to review and shooed him out of the room. The foyer was full of Deep Roads hopefuls, and Bartrand was probably going to pick out all the bootlickers who needed constant direction and send home the rest. Fantastic.

The stack took him three hours and was primarily filled with tedious and very dull ledgers - and Varric couldn’t just skim them, because he always did find mistakes, and Bartrand always checked afterwards.

By the time he finished, the foyer was empty. Varric sighed and pushed open his brother’s office door. “Hey Bartrand, I finished your… uh.”

Inside the room, a somewhat familiar face crowned in dark hair paled, then flushed deeply. The girl beside her - a relative? - looked from her face to his and back again. She frowned. “ _Sister_.”

“Well! Serah, uh, Barland. You’ve made your opinion quite clear!” The thief said in a rush. “We’ll let ourselves out, shall we?” She probably meant to sweep out the door the same way she swept out of that alley, but this time Varric was in the way.

“Why don’t I escort you?” He said dryly. “Here’s your accounting,” he told Bartrand, setting the stack of papers on a little end table. He held the door open. “After you.” The thief took him up on it, and her sister came right after with delicate brows set in disapproval. He followed them, and shut the door.

“Marian. _Marian_. _Tell me you didn’t shake down our employer’s brother_.”

“Oh, _is_ he your employer?” Varric interjected. “It really didn’t look like he was hiring you.”

The woman, Marian (she didn’t look like a Marian), gave a charming little awkward laugh. “Strictly speaking, Bethany, I _pretended_ to shake him down, and then I pickpocketed him.”

“I was meaning to ask how you did that.”

She smiled nervously. “A lady deserves her secrets, doesn’t she?”

“A lady deserves a call to the guards,” he retorted.

“I have very clever hands. Almost act on their own, really.”

“Right.” Said Varric. He paused. “Out of curiosity, how much have your ‘clever hands’ lifted in the last week?”

She looked at him appraisingly, blush fading. “Eighteen copper bits and twenty-six silvers. And five crowns, but those don’t count.” Varric raised a brow. “... And another dozen silvers from you this morning.”

“ _Marian!_ ” The sister yelped. “What will I do if you’re arrested?”

“They tried to steal from me first! Except the Orlesian, but that snob deserved it,” she protested, “and if you tell Aveline, I will deny everything.”

“Did _he_ deserve it?” She asked, gesturing at Varric.

“Some would say so,” said Varric, highly amused. He let the party out the front door, and continued on towards the stairs to Lowtown.

“Look,” said the thief, placating. “I’ll make it up to him. I’ll make it up to you, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You’ll buy me a drink?”

“... The Orlesian from yesterday will buy you _several_ drinks. Five Crowns worth, even.” Marian put her hands jauntily on her hips, and he saw Bethany put a hand over her face. Varric could relate. Older siblings.

He grinned. “Well, with an offer like that. C’mon, we’ll go to The Hanged Man and discuss your _clever fingers_. They good for anything besides pickpocketing?”

“They’re very good for knives,” she replied.

“My kind of woman,” said Varric. “You know, my brother’s got no eye for talent. I might have a business proposition for you, if you can keep your fingers clean for a year or so.” She nodded. “The name’s Varric Tethras.”

“Marian Hawke.” She held out a slim and calloused hand.

Hawke. That suited her a lot better.

“Serah Hawke,” he said, shaking her hand, “I think this is the start of a great friendship.”

 

>>\-------->

 

 

> _… I’m not sure why Daisy left her clan. Oh, I was there when Hawke discussed her reasons with her and her Keeper, but living in Kirkwall’s alienage doesn’t seem worth it to me, not for anything. Still, Kirkwall is a very old city. And Merrill is absolutely devoted to her studies._
> 
> _But first, she had to lead us up the mountain and through a series of ancient Elven traps. No easy feat with just one mage in the party…_
> 
> **\- The Tale of the Champion, Chapter 2**

Flemeth shocked the words out of Varric and Bethany for a good quarter hour, but finally Bethany pulled herself together and broke into Hawke and Merrill’s conversation.

“You mustn’t use blood magic in the city. Really you shouldn’t use any magic at all.”

Merrill turned. “No magic at all?”

“Not where a Templar can see you,” Varric agreed. “Better an elf in the alienage than a mage hiding in Darktown. Or locked in the Gallows.”

They fell silent for a few moments, Merrill frowning, Bethany gazing sadly at her staff.

“Anyway,” said Hawke, “Do you think I could pull off that dragon trick? _I’m_ not a witch of the wilds, but maybe if the three of us held hands and sat in a circle and thought about it _really hard_ …”

 

>>\-------->

 

 

> _… On first impression, Anders was more like a Chantry brother than a Grey Warden or an apostate mage. He_ cared _about people. For years, I saw how he soothed strangers, guided them, made them feel safe. He had more in common with Elthina than he’d have liked to hear._
> 
> _Maybe we should have been warier, but none of us expected a man whose charitable actions seemed to serve the Maker so faithfully to turn out to be… well, you know..._
> 
> **\- The Tale of the Champion, Chapter 4**

Aveline was furious about the dead Templars. “Those men had _families_ , Hawke! And he killed them without batting an eye. _You_ didn’t bat an eye.”

“They made Thekla tranquil,” she retorted darkly. “A _harrowed mage_.” What would they do to Bethany if they caught her, she didn’t say. What wouldn’t I do to steal her back, to make them pay?

Varric suspected Hawke actually sort of liked Anders’ spooky glowing trick. Appreciated his rage and viciousness. After what they saw tonight, he thought he could respect that. He wouldn’t say so in public, though. Those Templars… what a way to die.

 

>>\-------->

 

 

> _… Isabela was a shameless rogue, an inveterate troublemaker, and an indiscriminate flirt. This made her our kind of people. That she had the good sense to take particular interest with Hawke further demonstrated she was a woman of taste and distinction. With Bethany in the Gallows, Hawke needed the distraction. She was distraught to be separated from her sister, and I was, of course, a very supportive friend…_
> 
> **\- The Tale of the Champion, Chapter 8**

“But what are they _doing_ , do you think?”

“Whatever they usually do upstairs, I suppose,” said Fenris. “Hawke said they needed to talk privately. I would take her at her word.”

Varric grunted. “Privately. She could talk to me, I wouldn’t gossip.”

Fenris favored him with a skeptical look. Then, he said, “Perhaps they’re talking about you.”

“They could do that down here, I wouldn’t mind.” He drank. “...They’re not going to sleep together, are they?”

“They might,” said Fenris lightly.

“Do you think they’ve _been_ sleeping together?”

He raised a brow. “Would it be a problem if they were?”

Varric paused a few moments. “Rivaini just doesn’t seem like her type, is all.”

“In what way?” Fenris asked. “Her wit, her charm, her… considerable assets?”

“They are considerable,” Varric mumbled.

He took a deep swig of his… he squinted at the tankard. “Hey Corff, you call this ale?” The bartender shot him an unimpressed look. Varric shrugged and took another pull. “I’m just saying Hawke is in a delicate place right now. She might- she might be tempted to take advantage.”

“She won’t press for anything Hawke doesn’t want to give.” Said Fenris emphatically. “She wouldn’t treat a friend that way. You know this.”

He did know that, or he should know that, but Isabela… It was part of her charm, the way she brushed off other people's’ opinions. But it was the kind of charm that meant trouble. Varric knew what that looked like, and he couldn’t help dwelling on it now and then. If Hawke got involved, and then Isabela’s trouble caught up to her-- If Hawke got involved, and then Isabela decided what was best for herself was to skip town, well.

He didn’t want her to get hurt, that was all. Hawke found enough trouble on her own, she didn’t need anyone bringing it to her doorstep. She deserved someone who would back her up no matter what. She deserved someone who wouldn’t run from anything.

Varric took another drink.

 

>>\-------->

 

“So!” Said Hawke, settling into a chair by her fireplace, “Little Feynriel off to Tevinter to mess with the Fade and learn blood magic and all those nice Tevinter things. Good work, team.”

Merrill smiled, and Anders shot Hawke a wary look- as if unsure where sincerity ended and mocking sarcasm began.

“I’m not sure which prospect is worse,” Varric said.

Anders frowned. “The Fade won’t be dangerous once he’s properly trained.”

“Uh, Blondie, you weren’t quite there the way we were. It’s… Really something.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Not this time, no. But I was harrowed at Kinloch Hold, and I walked the F ade once after that too.”

Merrill perched on the arm of Hawke’s chair, wide-eyed. “Truly? When? What was it like?”

“It was with the Warden Commander, outside of Amaranthine-”

“With the Hero of Ferelden?” Hawke asked, the grin in her voice as wide as the one overtaking her face. “Now this I’ve _got_ to hear.”

He nodded. “Yes. It was how I met Justice, actually. The Wardens were investigating rumours of strange darkspawn in the Blackmarsh…”

Varric lounged quietly on the couch taking mental notes as Anders shared the entire rambling, adventurous tale. Then, when it was done, he segued into repeating a story that the Warden had told Anders sometime afterwards about the last time _she_ had been to the Fade, during the Blight. Seriously? It was great stuff; he could definitely make a story out of it.

That said, Varric thought, probably better if he told those three not to spread it around that the Hero of Ferelden had walked the Fade twice, the second time perhaps even physically (Was it physically? Varric wasn’t clear on that part. It sounded like Anders wasn’t sure, either). The story made the Warden sound like a magister and Anders sound like an abomination. The Chantry would have a fit.

But still… maybe for a side story in Swords and Shields?

 

>>\-------->

 

 

> _… Something went very wrong with Knight-Commander Meredith those last couple years. She had always been formidable, uncompromising, but this was something else. Anders might have lit the match, but she was the one who filled the barrel with gaatlok. Of course Hawke fought her. Meredith couldn’t truthfully be called a servant of the Chantry anymore. She had become a bigger monster than any of the so-called maleficarum she wanted to kill that night. Even her own knight-captain agreed._
> 
> _The Gallows were a nightmare I’ll be trying to forget for the rest of my life, but Hawke stood strong..._
> 
> **\- The Tale of the Champion, Chapter 19**

Hawke didn’t really _decide_ to side with the mages. She spent the boat ride over shaking while the rest of their companions argued over fault and the state of the city, flinched into Varric’s shoulder every time firelight or shouting carried over the water. The fighting had already started.

When the parley was done - after Meredith promised mage blood and Varric was pretty sure Hawke had come a hair’s breadth from trying to rip her apart bare-handed - she separated from the others to find Bethany.

Varric stood far enough away to let them talk privately, but he could see the line of Hawke’s shoulders, see them say _my fault, my fault, not Bethany too_ please _Maker--_ and then they hugged, and Bethany left to join some of her fellow mages in setting up a defensive line.

“I don’t want to leave her.” Hawke whispered when he approached. “What if she dies?”

Varric hesitated. “Would… you like me to stay with her?”

Hawke swayed forward, armor jabbing into his coat, chin coming to rest in his hair. “ _Please_ ,” she said.

Varric closed his eyes. For a moment, closed out all the world except for fur and sweat and leather and _trust_. “I’ve got your back, Hawke. Use your clever fingers to put a dagger in Meredith’s throat.”

Meredith died. Maker, Varric _hoped_ she wasn’t alive in there.

Bethany lived. Varric put an crossbow bolt through the eye of a templar who’d gotten too close.

Hawke lived. She fought with the elf and Aveline and Isabela at her side, and took no wound serious enough to need magical healing.

But Varric made it to the courtyard in time to see how barely she deflected Meredith’s last mighty blow, how close that sword came to opening her gut, and it knocked the blade out of Hawke’s hand, knocked her back, and Varric was helpless, he was out of bolts, and Hawke-

In a maneuver that was honestly very impressive, she twisted out of Meredith’s reach, grabbed her knife off the ground, and pressed it under her ribs. Hawke’s angle was perfect, and it was a piercing knife; it punched right through Meredith’s mail.

Varric breathed out.

 

>>\-------->

 

Hawke had to run. Varric held the line.

He published the book. One part rollicking adventure, one part propaganda by way of shameless falsehood.

(One part persuasive essay: “Why everyone should adore Hawke the way I do and definitely not try to arrest and/or kill her”.)

He hoped it worked. He hoped she could come home soon.

**Author's Note:**

> It's done! This is my first fic for an exchange! My first oneshot in years, _maker_... 
> 
> Thanks so much to meggannn for the prompt; I loved it, and in the end I had to dial back my ambitions for it significantly, and I. I wanna do a sequel at some point to be honest. Eventually. Someday. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
